


Communication is a Two-Way Street

by AlexWSpark (orphan_account)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But Yuuri comes to the rescue, Canon Universe, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Victor Nikiforov, I had a bad day, It ended up becoming this, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Please don't take this shit seriously, Victor Angst, Victor is having a terrible horrible no good very bad day, they're both idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 10:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10637988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/AlexWSpark
Summary: I had a pretty tough week and all my angst ended up in this one-shot. Victor is a bit of an unreliable narrator here, so bear with him. It helped break through a bit of writer's block, so yay me!You can find me onTumblr. Kudos and comments welcome :)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had a pretty tough week and all my angst ended up in this one-shot. Victor is a bit of an unreliable narrator here, so bear with him. It helped break through a bit of writer's block, so yay me! 
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://alexwspark.tumblr.com/). Kudos and comments welcome :)

"Victor!" Anna's arms were around him before the door was fully opened, "I'm so happy to see you! You're a pain in the ass though. I've been calling you non-stop. Didn't you flight come in a few hours- Victor? Victor, are you okay?"

Victor slouched into his sister's hold, her tiny grunts a reactive protest to being burdened with ninety percent of his weight. The collective exhaustion made origami of his body, creasing his muscles into an unbearable tightness that pulsed and festered, the poison of it already corrupting his nerve endings. Every signal to his brain screamed for peace. Every breath felt like a raging thunderstorm, every movement a destructive bolt of lightning, every thought a cold, harsh downpour around his already dampened fragility. 

"Fuck, you're freezing. Why aren't you wearing your coat?" He mumbled something in Russian, brittle but snarky, "You're such a piece of work little brother. C'mon..."

He allowed himself to be awkwardly led to the couch where he immediately curled cat-like into the blankets Anna had gathered there. She gently relinquished him of his coat, hanging it on the nearby rack. He registered the low thump of his carry-on being dropped near the entrance and the subdued creak and click of the apartment door. Hands reached around each foot, prying away his shoes and socks, and after a bit of purposeful padding around the kitchen, with the clink of glass and slosh of liquids, Anna brought back a collins of what he knew was one of her a devastating concoctions. He gratefully downed it in one go, alcohol like liquid nirvana smoothing over his frozen throat.

"Thanks." 

She placed the glass on the coffee table and replaced it with her hands, climbing into the fortress of fluffed fabric with him. Victor lay his head on her shoulder and sniffled.

"Why didn't you call me? You're going to catch a cold like this."

"Please. I spent the better part of my life enduring Russian winters," Anna still looked at him questioningly and he faltered, "I...couldn't breathe. I left the taxi early and walked just...because. I don't even remember taking off my coat."

"Alright," Victor heard the vigilance so reminiscent of his big sister. It reminded him of the time she'd broken that vile teenager's nose at the local rink when he'd cruelly made fun of Victor's long hair. She'd been twelve at the time, only two years older than him, "Are you going to tell me what's up? I didn't expect you to leave Japan, well, _ever_." 

"Yet here I am," he slurred caustically. 

"Stop that," Anna chided, "We don't have enough time for you to be a brat, so skip the dramatics in favor of an explanation starting with how you convinced Yuuri that you needed to take this trip on such short notice."

"Family business."

Anna sighed, "Victor, why the fuck are you lying to the man you're in love with?"

That was  _exactly_ why and he flinched, unhidden and contrite at the harsh reality of his actions. It had been one fib, a small white lie that he'd convinced himself he was allowed. Even he, with his heart-shaped allure and (sometimes) overwhelmingly cheerful disposition had a limit. He'd tried. God, he really had tried. He'd held fast to that skate-worthy composure, the quiet solitude that overtook him seconds before the music serenaded his body, but the more he scrabbled at it, the more it crumbled through his fingers. From looking Yuuri square in the eye a day ago, nonchalantly stating that he needed to urgently visit his sister in Moscow, to booking a last minute flight with guilt-ridden fingers, glossing over the exorbitant prices that glared warningly at him; from throwing together the bare essentials as Makkachin pawed at his leg with a small whine (he'd hugged her for what felt like infinity, whispering apologies into her fur), to hurrying to the train station, Yuuri matching his brisk steps as they both fidgeted with their phones, pockets, buttons, hair, non-existent lint and every other arbitrary thing in their individual reach. Words had been offered, detached and anxious, and fuck, Victor _hated_ it. Yuuri wasn't some stranger he'd met in passing, easily dismissed or willfully forgotten. 

_Go back to the inn Victor. Don't do this. Don't fucking do this. Go. Back. With. Yuuri._

"Um. Victor? Are you okay?"

He'd imagined the answers he _could_ give. Comparable to the dialogue options in those RPGs he'd found himself warming too since watching Yuuri game, the cursor in his mind cycled through the lineup:  _'I love you'_ was too labyrinthine ( _but it's the correct answer Victor! Go back to Yu-topia with Yuuri you fucking moron!_ );  _'I'm not fucking okay'_ was too venomous;  _'I'm suffering from an extreme case of cognitive dissonance'_ was too existentially mortifying. So, he went with the choice that had no requisite conglomeration of emotional depth.

In other words, he continued being an asshole.

"Of course I am Yuuri. Why wouldn't I be?"

His voice must have carried that robotic quality a little too obviously because Yuuri had fixed him with a confused (and, Victor detested himself even more, _hurt_ ) look. Those eyes, like handmade chocolate under a generous lush of dark, silky lashes that would make any self-respecting human reel with jealousy, had flickered, Yuuri's usual buzzing electricity interrupted by Victor's sudden bout of what he knew was absolute, irredeemable stupidity.

Yuuri had shrugged, a casual gesture immediately betrayed by the deep pink of his cheeks and trembling slant of his mouth, "You've been...different since we got back. Quieter. It's just...it's not like you? I..."

"What?"

"Never mind," Yuuri had said, shaking his head with a forced laugh, "It's nothing."

And Victor had very nearly,  _very very nearly,_ saw red. The edge of it probably flashed a little too sharply, icing over his blue eyes, because Yuuri's lips parted in shock. Victor cursed himself and with the determination of a fool (he was honestly convinced he was nothing but at this point) his mind hauled his heart back from the brink and slapped the useless thing to its senses. With his anger dowsed ( _what right do I have to feel anything but penitent? Forgive me Father for I have stolen the sun from Yuuri's lips..._ ), he'd given Yuuri a smile, misshaped and mostly devoid of its usual symphonic beam (the missing pages of crucial notes were trapped in the sludge churning in his gut), but enough that it didn't feel like the ground would open up and devour them both.

"I'll only be gone a couple of days. Please keep up with your exercises and I expect video updates so I can keep track of your training. Call or message me whenever you like."

It had surprised him how easily that last part came. It wasn't tacked on or said with false sincerity. Quite the contrary; it escaped him with rooted fondness that overrode all the other feelings bubbling within him. Clearly his emotions were colluding against him, flaying him with their treachery and contradictions. The sadists.

"Ohh-kay," Yuuri had let the syllables linger long and baffled, like he'd lost the bookmark in Victor's book and was desperately trying to recall the page they were on. 

Except Yuuri wasn't on the same page as him. Yuuri, perhaps, had never bothered to read the damn book. He'd look at the title and judged Victor then and there. 

_Victor Nikiforov - The Man, The Myth, The Legend*_

_*conditions apply._

And fuck, there were several appendices to cover that asterisk and fine print, to outline the Victor Nikiforov that no one _really_ took the time to see. It dismantled the illusion for those patient enough to stand on the ground with him and not view him on some pedestal where he was shrouded in obnoxious light and equally subjective expectations. 

"I'll see you soon Yuuri," Victor had said softly, with half the feeling he truly harbored, and a quarter of that too complex to wrap his tired mind around. He'd stepped onto the escalator and didn't look back, praying Yuuri wouldn't hate him for this.

Okay. He had looked back. 

And Yuuri had still been there, looking up at him with _all_ his own feeling, none of which appeared fabricated by any outside force. No. It was private and genuine, that rare burst through the young skater's defenses that Victor craved like an addict. Even with the distance, Victor had seen the glistening behind Yuuri's glasses, the watery ripples at the corners that he refused to let fall. He almost lost his footing, not realizing how quickly the end of the moving staircase would come.

_Two days. I'm allowed that much. It's just two days._

He knew that it wasn't so simple but Victor couldn't find his reserve of compassion this time. So he'd ran. It was selfish, incredibly witless and utterly taxing. It was the last thing he'd wanted to do. For god's sake, he'd started missing Yuuri after taking all of five steps away from the fucking escalator. But he had to. He had to because if he'd spent one more night roaming through Hasetsu in the lonely hours between night and day only to find Yuuri waiting for him at the entrance to Yu-topia, or one more practice with Yuuri leaning against him as he took off his skates, or one more bath in the onsen raking his gaze over Yuuri's flawless physique as they picked apart his routines, or one more conversation that veered into alarming strain whenever China was mentioned...

From Fukuoka to Moscow, he'd been all sultry good looks, smooth lines, and camera-worthy smiles. As expected, there were too many links to sift through concerning his presence in Moscow and the distinct lack of Yuuri at his side. He'd left Yuuri a voice-note, knowing a text was too impersonal given the circumstance. Though he'd maintained his well-constructed demeanor for the duration of the message, sadness dislodged his lungs and stomped on his chest after it was sent. 

Everything fell apart when he stood outside his sister's apartment, her effervescent grin and the appetizing wisps of his mother's zharkoye recipe floating out from the kitchen finally tearing away the remainder of his walls _(didn't I tell Yuuri we'd come here together?)_. Now, fully confronted with his unforgivable duplicity towards Yuuri, he cried into Anna's shoulder. It was loud, ugly, emotions heaving out of him in choked sobs. He clung to his big sister and practically bawled because he needed to. He'd needed to for years.

Everyone had this preconceived notion that Victor Nikiforov was some self-appointed god, the embodiment of the spotlight, lean and graceful and wholly untouchable, which of course translated to him being overly spoiled, outrageously impulsive and a martyr of all things debaucherous.

Which he wasn't. Not in the way people believed. On the ice, he could convey every one of those traits with ease. It did _not_ fucking mean that those were he default settings. That passion extended to very few things in his life and it certainly didn't make him impermeable. No one asked Victor if it was okay to take his name and attribute it to whatever fancied them. No one gave a damn how it affected him, or what sorrow lay under the mask of the legend. No one cared that he was human, capable of hurt like anyone else.

He thought Yuuri was different. 

_He thought Yuuri was different._

"Hey, it's okay Victor," Anna smoothed back his hair, "what do you mean you thought Yuuri was different? Are you guys okay?"

Victor hiccuped. He'd been babbling out loud apparently. He shook his head in response, throat raw, tears unabated.

"Is this about the Cup of China? Did Yuuri say something about it?"

A short but positive head shake and an audible squeak. Anna hugged him tighter. 

"Okay. Was it a good something?"

"I don't know why I let it affect me so much." Victor's voice belonged in the halls of a haunted mansion, "It wasn't...I don't know what it was Anna. It could've been a joke, he could've been serious, I don't know. Most days I can't tell what's going on inside Yuuri's head."

She nodded patiently, "What did he say?"

"He asked why I kissed him and before I could process the question he added that it was definitely a surprise worthy of my name."

"He isn't wrong." Victor shot up, affronted by the suggestion. His features transitioned from gloomy to stormy in the space of a blink.

"I didn't kiss him to uphold my _illustrious reputation_  Anna," he was all bark _and_ bite, slinking away to the far side of the couch, looking anywhere but his sister. Anna brought her hands up in defense.

"You think I don't know that?" she said, "but this isn't about me. You're missing _Yuuri's_ point-"

"What the fuck Anna-"

"Listen to me Victor. Your relationship with Yuuri may have started off rough but that's moot now. Please tell me you see what Yuuri was trying to tell y-"

"It doesn't matter now." Another lie. Another defiant, ignorant, futile lie.

"You know that's not what he meant," Anna insisted, "You've told me a thousand times how Yuuri's words can be steeped in his anxiety. He may not process things as black and white as you but that doesn't mean he would consciously insult or hurt you."

"This is different. This is...it's..." he couldn't find the right way to sum up the super nova he had bottled within him and it made him sick with (self) resentment, "This shouldn't be so fucking hard."

"It isn't. You love Yuuri. And he loves you. Simple."

"He does _not-_ " Victor clamped a hand over his mouth and then covered his face, Russian expletives thick in his palm.

Ana frowned, "So that's what this is about? I have to say little brother, you didn't strike me as a self-saboteur. You _want_ to believe Yuuri's fucking with you?"

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he retorted (and very feebly so).

"Holy shit." she gave a slow, telling whistle, "What's the point in lying to me Victor? Actually, scratch that. Why are you lying to _yourself_? Look, I'm not saying you shouldn't be annoyed, or at least put out by this whole thing but tell me, have you all talked?"

"Since China?" Victor shut his eyes tight, "No."

"Yuuri isn't telepathic Victor."

He was starting to fray again, sharp needles picking at his seams, "Why the fuck aren't you on my side Anna?! What is with everyone's constant barrage of protectiveness towards...and not...not..." he buried his head in his hands, frustrated, "I just needed to _breathe_. Why does that make me the enemy?! Why am I not allowed a few days to be what everyone already thinks I am?! Am I...do I...do my f-feelings not m-matter t-too?"

And a fresh lake of tears poured over his face. He didn't fight it when Anna embraced him again.

"I am _always_ on your side Victor and of course your feelings matter but you know exactly why you came to me and it wasn't to bandage your bruised ego. That's mother's job."

She rubbed gently into his back, "Do you remember that little fuck who made the mistake of offending you?" He gulped in affirmation, "I don't. The only thing I think about is you refusing to let anyone touch your hair afterwards. You kept it in a bun. You wore hats constantly. I can't recall a time in my life when I was more upset."

"You used to braid it for me every morning before that," Victor wavered under the memory.

"When you asked me to style it for your first competition...I never told you this, but I loathed the decision. As much as I'd wished that you would overcome that experience, you didn't do it for yourself and it was the first of so many changes that went beyond simple compromises. You deserved so much better Victor."

"Then one day you video call me with this ear splitting grin and announced that you were moving to Japan to coach Yuuri Katsuki. It was so off the deep end for you and I was fucking thrilled! When I visited in August, well, I'm surprised Hasetsu hasn't imploded from the emotional and sexual tension you're both generating. You and Yuuri really need to work on your fucking communication skills," she took him by the shoulders, "Look at me. Do you know why you haven't confronted Yuuri about this? Because just like him, you're struggling. You don't want to be rejected. You don't want to go back to the man you were. Yuuri isn't the only one that feels overwhelmed by that kiss. Wanting something and actually getting it are two different things and yes, being selfish is okay and no, you are not the enemy here. No one is Victor. You know exactly why Yuuri made that comment."

"It was a question," Victor whispered, "it was Yuuri's way of confirming where we stood."

"So, lay it out in its simplest form for both your sakes. That's the only way for this ridiculous miscommunication to end."

He rubbed at his puffy eyes, heart rabbiting in his chest, "You're right. I know you're right. But...can I not think for a little while?"

"Sure. Are you hungry?"

"And thirsty. Keep the drinks coming?"

"Not a problem," she ruffled his hair dotingly, "but I'm only instigating today. I can't have you going back to Hasetsu nursing a two day hangover. Yuuri would murder me."

"Fine," he felt for his phone in his pocket. One glance at the screen picked out a voice-note from Yuuri, "Can I borrow your charger?"

 

* * *

Victor couldn't sleep. He'd stared at the voice-note through the day, and then a video of Yuuri's training session that he was sure the triplets were responsible for given its quality. His skating was as beautiful as ever, all smooth lines, stunning footwork, and unhindered confidence. Yuuri was a creature of the ice, shimmering and blossoming with every precise curve of his blade, every perfectly executed revolution, every extension of his sinewy limbs. His eyes however...

Victor carefully pulled the heavy blankets to his chin, having dragged them all from the couch to the guest room. His head was spinning from the steady intake of alcohol, not so fast that it was nauseating, but not slowly enough that he could make sudden movements without his vision whiting out. All he could do was lay there and contemplate the tragedy of Yuuri's absent smile. And it was entirely his fault. Anyone who would dream to rob Yuuri Katsuki of that bright and beautiful exuberance deserved to be drawn and quartered. Victor offered himself up to the universe with a decisive face-palm.

His phone beeped and he brought it out of sleep to see a new message from Yuuri (ah, the universe had a sense of humor). It was five a.m. in Hasetsu. Yuuri's alarm was usually set for seven-thirty. Victor felt a stab of regret for this entire mess. 

**From: Yuuri**

Hey Victor, I'm sorry if this wakes you. It's...strange not having you around the inn.

 

**From: Yuuri**

Makkachin is being impossible this morning.

 

Victor laughed warmly at the selfie of his poodle sprawled over Yuuri's neck and face. Makka looked absolutely pleased with herself. He blinked at the picture, noticing the stripes of Yuuri's t-shirt under the mass of fur and he was suddenly typing without preamble.

 

**To: Yuuri**

Hey, still up. Is that my t-shirt?

 

**From: Yuuri**

Yeah...I think some of our laundry got mixed up. Sorry.

 

**To: Yuuri**

It looks good on you. Don't apologize.

 

**To: Yuuri**

Our clothes should get mixed up more often.

 

**From: Yuuri**

:)

 

**From: Y** **uuri**

How's Anna?

 

**To: Yuuri**

She closed her bar and sent me to bed. So, she's great as usual.

 

**From: Yuuri**

I'll have to thank her. You're an unpredictable drunk.

 

_You're one to talk._ Victor's finger hovered for a moment before he deleted the message. He would deal with Sochi another time.

 

**From: Yuuri**

Victor...are you mad at me?

 

**From: Yuuri**

You just left...it felt like you wouldn't come back... 

 

Victor sunk as far into the bed as could. If he was lucky, the mattress would swallow him.

 

**From: Yuuri**

I've been trying to tell you...

 

Victor cringed. There was the axe. It would either sever his neck or the chains around his heart. He was going to vomit. He was going to expel his insides onto Anna's pristine, one thousand thread count sheets-

 

**From: Yuuri**

I don't regret our kiss. It was the breqqscft

 

**From: Yuuri**

**best moment of my life (so far).

 

Victor _stopped._ Stopped thinking, stopped breathing, stopped existing. Had Yuuri been drinking? Had Victor drank _too much?_ Oh jesus, Yuuri was still typing?!

 

**From: Yuuri**

I should've told you after the competition. 

 

**From: Yuuri**

Victor...please come back to Hasetsu. 

 

And Victor was _scrambling_ from under the web of blankets, slamming his head against the headboard in haste, almost breaking his neck careening off the bed. He gave the airline app half his attention as he rushed to his suitcase, bedding tangled around his thighs. He started throwing things into his bag, adjusting his flight for the morning with the second most fierce surge of urgency he'd ever entertained in his life.

(The first being kissing Yuuri, of course).

 

**To: Yuuri**

I emailed my new flight info. I'll see you soon _< 3_

 

* * *

"Well I'm glad this didn't take long." Anna pecked him on the cheek and fixed his scarf with a grin, "You owe me though. This is way too early to be out of bed."

Victor smiled, "Thanks for the ear and the drinks."

"Will you be okay flying with an impending hangover?"

"Probably not, but I need to go home." 

"Yes," she agreed, looking pleased at his chosen description of Hasetsu (and _Yuuri_ ), "you fucking do. Go on. Message me when you can, okay?"

Victor pulled her into a appreciative squeeze, bidding her goodbye in Russian before hurrying through his assigned gate. 

 

* * *

Admittedly, travelling as the effects of a day of drinking reared it's wicked head was in no way wise. His mind felt much clearer the moment he landed in Fukuoka albeit rattled by a headache that roared and rebelled with every step. He leaned against the nearest barrier in the pickup area and groaned, slipping off his shades to massage his bloodshot eyes. 

_Almost there. Almost home. Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri..._

And just as the name became the mantra that would guide him the rest of the way, a blur of arms and blue rimmed glasses clouded his vision followed by a body flying against his, knocking the wind out of his next ten lifetimes.

"Victor!"

"Yuuri?"

It sounded like Yuuri. It smelled like him too - warm outdoor baths, crisp ocean air and freshly shaved ice. And it certainly felt like him, the dips, curves and muscles exactly as Victor remembered from their previous hugs. Before Victor could stop himself (not that that was even possible now), he was fully wrapped around Yuuri, _his Yuuri,_ and he never wanted to let go. _No more distance, no more unspoken things._ He swore it silently as gorgeous, caring Yuuri held onto him (instead of punching him because a nice, practical black eye would compliment his apocalyptic lapse in judgement splendidly).

"Yuuri." And if Victor had any tears left he would've cried again. One arm fell to Yuuri's waist, the other running along his back, hand threading through his beautiful, shining locks. He took a deep breath and imprinted that unique essence of Yuuri into his soul. 

"You're shaking." Yuuri's hands were fisted into his jacket, "Are you okay?"

"I am now."

They didn't move. Seconds passed, then minutes, then time became an abandoned concept. Victor could feel the rise and fall of Yuuri's chest, every breath showering his neck in warmth, the relaxation in his stance palpable. They lost themselves in the simple act, the intimacy and contentedness of it humming under Victor's skin. 

"Weren't we supposed to meet at the train station?"

Yuuri shook his head, "I couldn't wait that long."

"I'm really sorry about all this." Yuuri huddled closer to him (which seemed impossible given their proximity) and with a teary chuckle muttered what sounded like _'Baka'_ into his neck.

"Will you do something for me?" 

Victor would steal the stars from the sky if he had to, "Anything."

"Kiss me?"

If Yuuri's lips weren't positioned (so distractedly) on his jawline, Victor would've missed the words. They were said with muted care, firm but nervous, and Victor wondered if, like him, Yuuri had practiced them in front of the mirror with an excited Makkachin interrupting the spectacle after each attempt. 

He shifted his cheek just enough that the entirety of Yuuri's face filled his vision and with a smile he reserved solely for the moments they forgot the world moving around them, he kissed him. There was something infinitely crystallizing about it, soft and reassuring and honest. When Yuuri's hand went to his cheek, he shivered under his touch, color rising in his skin like sunrise. The fear left him, replaced by molten euphoria glowing in his bloodstream.

"I think we should go," Yuuri murmured. 

"Yes," Victor touched their foreheads together, "We have a lot to talk about."

He wasn't trying to be suggestive but his breath caught when Yuuri didn't bother to disguise the incandesce in his smirk, "I know. We really need to work on that." Victor leaned in and captured that perfect mouth once more.

"Oh, we will. I promise."


End file.
